


Walk Away

by honestys_easy



Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: American Idol - RPS, Breakfast, Cooking, Dancing, Eggs, M/M, Singing, Songfic, Surprises
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-06-18
Updated: 2007-06-18
Packaged: 2017-12-05 07:38:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/720514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honestys_easy/pseuds/honestys_easy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Saturday before finale week, Blake is woken up by Kelly Clarkson music, and he is <span class="u">not</span> amused.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Walk Away

Blake was awakened to the sickeningly-sweet sound of pop music blasting from the kitchen. He groaned at the opening bars, the music mixing with the bright Los Angeles sunshine streaming in through his window, effectively preventing him from returning to slumber.

It was Jordin again, he thought as he literally rolled out of his bed and placed his feet on solid ground. The teenager had picked up the annoying habit of sneaking into Blake’s apartment at ungodly hours of the morning. She had done it last Saturday morning as well, when Avril Lavigne’s new CD was her music of choice and Melinda had forcibly removed her from their own apartment.

As he quickly pulled on an old t-shirt and boxer shorts – Blake never understood why more people didn’t sleep in the nude, it was just so natural to him – he recognized the opening lines as a song placed at the top of Chris Sligh’s “American Idol 101” playlist:

> _You've got your mother and your brother  
>  Every other undercover  
> Tellin' you what to say…_

Blake winced. Kelly Clarkson at seven in the morning. Fan-fucking-tastic.

 __

>  _You think I'm stupid  
>  But the truth is that it's cupid, baby  
> Lovin' you has made me this way_

He began the short walk from the bedroom over to the kitchen and livingroom area when the strong scent of cooking attacked his nose. That’s certainly not like last week, Blake thought as a second sniff confirmed the smell of sizzling onions and peppers wafting through the apartment. Jordin couldn’t even boil water without having adult supervision and a fire extinguisher at the ready. Just who was hanging around Blake’s kitchen at seven in the morning, listening to pop music and sautéing breakfast?

> _
> 
> So before you point your finger  
> Get your hands off of my trigger
> 
> _

When he turned the corner down the hallway to find the pop-listening, breakfast-making intruder, the figure he saw before him stopped him dead in his tracks. At first, Blake thought his poor eyesight was the culprit – he rubbed his eyes with balled fists until spots appeared, but to no avail. Then he thought he obviously must still be dreaming – but he was sure that he wouldn’t be dreaming of Kelly Clarkson music, not even after that sketchy burrito he ate last night.

 __

>  _You need to know this situation's getting old  
>  And now the more you talk  
> The less I can take_

Then, Blake realized as his eyes widened along with his smile, that this wasn’t a dream, or his eyes playing tricks on him.

Right in the middle of the open kitchen stood Chris Richardson, dancing freely and lip-synching melodramatically to the song, a sizzling pan of Western omelets on the stove.

> _
> 
> I'm looking for attention  
> Not another question
> 
> _

At first, Chris continued to bop and sway around the kitchen unreservedly, believing no one was watching him. When he saw Blake out of the corner of his eye, beaming, he stopped for a beat, but then flashed a winning smile and continued on dancing; his lip-synching and the swagger of his hips more exaggerated than before. He was being unnecessarily silly, he knew that, but whom could you be silly in front of if not the man you love?

Blake couldn’t hide his excitement at Chris’s sudden appearance; it was like Christmas and Blake was seven again. Except that finding Chris was like discovering Santa Claus in your living room and that he had brought Blake that drumset his father refused to buy, and what was more, Blake could have sex with this present. Blake smirked to himself. Chris was the gift that kept on giving.

> _
> 
> Should you stay or should you go?
> 
> _

“You’re supposed to be here on Monday,” Blake shouted over the music as Chris sashayed over to the refrigerator to retrieve some shredded cheese. It was true; the Idol castaways were scheduled to return to their L.A. stomping grounds in two days’ time for the show’s finale. But it hadn’t cost anything to change the plane tickets and Chris still had his set of keys for the apartment. And two more days apart from Blake was too much to bear. Chris supposed he got a little too carried away in his surprise, but that didn’t really matter because they were here now, together.

> _Well, if you don't have the answer  
>  Why are you still standin' here?  
> Just walk away_

Blake repeated his statement, grinning from ear to ear. “You’re supposed to be here on Monday.” He stepped closer to his boyfriend’s dancing frame – God, he loved Chris, and he sure could keep a steady rhythm when they were fucking, but he was certainly no Fred Astaire. He chuckled despite himself when Chris stuck out his well-toned ass and shook it with the beat.

God, it was good to have that ass back home.

Wrapping his arms carefully around Chris’s swaying waist, he placed a sweet kiss on the other man’s shoulder blade, his lips lingering there for a moment.

“You’ve made my fucking morning,” Blake said into Chris’s neck as he continued to kiss every inch of skin he could find on his lover. Chris was all smiles, grinning with his whole body as he did whenever he was around Blake. He quickly added the cheese into the frying pan – he had made omelets once before without cheese and Blake made such a stink that he refused to eat anything non-dairy for days – and then turned himself around in Blake’s embrace so he could face his beaming boyfriend.

Leaning in close, their hips flush against each other none too innocently, Chris sang softly along with the music into Blake’s ear. It sounded quite different from Kelly, Blake mused, Chris’s sexy, low timbre and the vibrations his voice made against Blake’s ear caused a shudder to course through his body.

“I wanna love, I want a fire, to feel the burn in my desire,” Chris breathed, his one hand holding the egg-covered spatula while the other danced up and down Blake’s spine, tickling every vertebrae through his t-shirt. “I want a man by my side, not a boy who runs and hides…”

Chris locked eyes with the older man, his hips accentuating every upbeat. He could see the need in Blake’s eyes, hungry for more than a Western omelet and a teasing dry hump in the morning. He could feel the presence mounting in his own groin – he wanted more, too. “Are you gonna fight for me? Live and breathe for me? ‘Cause if you won’t, then just –“

Impatient lips effectively cut Chris off and he immediately responded to Blake’s kiss. Blake could hardly take it anymore; he loved watching Chris dance and move around with no fear of self-consciousness. Hell, he loved it even more when the man was dancing up on him, making him feel the way only Chris Richardson could. But he couldn’t just stand there and not do anything when those lips were so close and so inviting and so utterly his.

Blake deepened the kiss, demanding entrance with a prodding tongue, and moaned loudly as the familiar taste of Chris engulfed his senses. But he wanted more, more than he could have of Chris in the kitchen. He pulled away from Chris suddenly, with a playful nip at the younger man’s lips. Chris looked at him with half-lidded eyes, disappointed at Blake’s departure.

“Why are we still standing here?” he asked, his voice heavy with lust. Hands roamed over Chris’s ass and squeezed, eliciting a moan. Blake hooked his thumbs into the belt loops of Chris’s jeans and attempted to pull him towards the bedroom, but Chris stopped him, his chuckle reverberating through Blake’s body.

“The omelets will burn,” Chris protested, pointing his spatula at the frying pan filled with eggs, peppers and good intentions.

Shaking his head, Blake gave another tug to Chris’s jeans, each pull bringing their hips closer into contact. “Don’t want omelets,” he said in clipped tones, his mouth aching to find Chris’s once more. “Want you.”

With just enough reach and opportunity, Chris flipped off the flame on the stove as he let Blake usher him to the bedroom for a much more proper reunion than omelets and Kelly Clarkson.


End file.
